


martyr to a motion not my own

by orphan_account



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Except Not Actually, Happy Ending, Kink Meme, M/M, Post Defenders season/series 01, Schmoop, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 20:47:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14269224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Foggy and Matt's friendship has withstood the test of death; it can handle the fallout from a little sex pollen. Even if it wasn't sex pollen after all.





	martyr to a motion not my own

**Author's Note:**

> This is a kink meme prompt fill! You can read the full text [here](https://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/8773.html?thread=18395973#cmt18395973). But basically, the prompt was "not-sex-pollen (but they thought it was)" so that's what I wrote.
> 
> There is some angsting over perceived dub-con before the truth that it wasn't comes out, if that's a squick for you. Not too much, though, because I'm a wimp and I feel like they suffer enough in canon.
> 
> Thanks to mrstrentreznor for looking this over for me!

Foggy’s been trying really hard to get over being mad at Matt, but it hasn’t been easy. When he started, it was pretty much justified, because of Matt fucking off and doing whatever during the Castle trial. (Fighting ninjas with another blind guy and a socialite, not _whatever_ , Foggy does know that much but he likes to call it _whatever_ because it makes the whole thing sound a little less dire in his head.) Then it started to feel not quite as justified as time went on, and the memory of Matt abandoning him during the trial and all the other bullshit assumed its place in the gallery of memories they’d built together over the years. Perspective was easier to grasp when he wasn’t constantly worried about his heat getting cut off.

After that, it didn’t seem like it was hurting anyone for him to be angry at Matt. Matt was dead and no one could really talk about it, because, _again_ , undead ninjas were involved. He’d tried to stick with numb resignation, but it only worked in spurts, and then it was back to a constant mental litany of _you fucking asshole, you left before we could fix it._

So when Claire came over with wariness in her eyes and gentleness in her voice, and broke the news that Matt was alive, and probably Elektra had made it out too, Foggy had no idea what he was feeling for at least 24 hours. A phone call seemed insufficient for a welcome back to the living, but he almost couldn’t bear the thought of seeing Matt’s face. As he walked up the stairs to see Matt for the first time, he cataloged each emotion as he caught it, like butterflies in a net. _Guilt. Anger. Happiness. Grief. Shame. Nervousness._ He didn’t bother to examine their causes. It was enough to finally have names for them.

That meeting was incredibly awkward, because Matt was doing the sad puppy face instead of being happy to see him and that expression triggered an almost automatic flood of fury that Foggy had to physically clench his jaw against. Matt looking like that meant Foggy’s suspicions were right: he meant to stay in that building past its collapse.

But they’ve been trying, ever since, and Foggy’s been telling his feelings the truth in the possibly-vain hope that his heart will finally begin to believe his mind. _Matt didn’t want to leave. He’s glad he’s back. He still wants to be my friend. I still want to be his friend._

It doesn’t help that Foggy is only certain about one of those four statements. Which one changes by the day.

So it’s a little weird, right now, to be tied back-to-back with Matt in a building he’s never seen before, temporarily left to their own devices while their captors step outside to argue just past the closed door. Matt’s not even in the suit. Well, he’s in _a_ suit, he’s in a lawyer suit, his glasses lost somewhere on the way here but otherwise only mildly disheveled based on the brief glimpse Foggy got of his face between when his blindfold was removed and them being tied together.

“So what’s this about?” Foggy barely breathes out. No sense in the kidnappers hearing the conversation.

Matt shifts irritably, testing the ropes that bind them together. “Something about a case you’re working. Defending Jones from a corporate espionage civil suit? They’ve got it in their heads that we’re working on it together because of all the times they’ve seen two of the three of us in in the same place. How bright is it in here?”

“Very,” Foggy says, looking around. “Do you know what this place is?”

“No.” Although Foggy can’t see his face, he knows Matt’s frowning, discontent with the limitations of whatever he can sense. “Would you—would you mind describing it? Please?”

Just like old times. “Sure. Okay, we’re in the middle of an open space, but most of the walls have either a lot of shelving or these tall metal tanks, about three feet high and about two feet circumference. The tanks have hoses coming out of them that lead to barrels. The shelves have dozens of glass bottles of different sizes with different colored liquids inside of them. There are also pipes leading from the barrels to other containers, some valves, some meters that I can’t read, some science-y looking equipment, a metal sink like you’d see in a lab. That’s about it. Not the usual damp warehouse, that’s for sure.”

“No.” Matt’s head swivels. Foggy can hear him inhale. “There are… _so many_ smells in here. I’ve never encountered anything like it.”

He sounds a little dazed. Unfocused. Foggy twists his hand around as much as he can in the rope that ties them together and grasps Matt’s fingers gently. “Hey. You all right? You’re not concussed or anything, are you?”

Matt nods, then shakes his head no. “I’m fine.” Foggy snorts a little at that. “I _am_.”

It’s not worth pushing it. Foggy lets go. “Okay. On a scale of one to ‘probably a building is going to collapse, entombing us with ancient dragon bones,’ how much danger would you guess we’re in? Do you have a plan for getting us out of here?”

Matt hums. “Probably a three. They might just want to frighten us into dropping Jessica as a client. If we acted scared enough, it’s possible they’d believe us when we agreed.”

“And then you’d track them down in the suit and visit the wrath of God upon their reprobate heads later?”

Matt snorts, a tiny sound of amusement that still makes Foggy’s heart warm with pride before he catches himself and frowns. “Something like that.”

“Sounds like a plan, then.” A supremely shitty one, especially considering the likelihood that they’ll end up taking a beating before they’re let go, but there aren’t a lot of options in a place like this with Matt not wearing—hey, wait a minute. “How did they get you, by the way? You couldn’t fight them off?”

“They were stupid, and it ended up working in their favor.” Foggy hears the note of frustration. “They grabbed me on a well-lit street with four people watching from windows or doors. I couldn’t risk fighting them and having the others see. At least one of the witnesses was calling 911 while they drove away, so. There’s that.”

That still doesn’t sound right. Foggy thinks for a second, and revelation dawns. “You knew they had me, didn’t you.”

Matt’s shoulders slump against Foggy’s back. “They said ‘the other one’s already on his way there, we need to meet up’ and I just… I knew. Or thought I knew. I hoped I was wrong. But I didn’t want to risk losing them on the way and you being on your own.”

“Well.” Foggy shrugs. “Thanks. It sucks that they’re probably going to beat you up too, and you’ll have to let them, but I’m kind of selfishly glad not to be alone.”

“I’m glad I’m here.”

Foggy speaks fluent What Matt Didn’t Say. “You’re not going to let them beat us up.”

“No, I don’t think I’ll let people punch you tonight, Fog, is that okay?” Matt’s voice has gone testy. He’s been shifting his hands back and forth, wriggling them, and now Foggy feels his own bonds grow slightly looser as Matt works free.

“It’s a little well-lit in here for you to be pulling those moves, buddy. You really want them going out and blabbing about the blind lawyer who kicked their asses?”

“They’ll never see me. I’m about to turn out the lights.”

Foggy doesn’t actually want to be punched tonight anyway, so he acquiesces with ill grace. “Fine, whatever. Anything I can do?”

“Just go over to the corner there once I untie you, and stay still.” Matt finishes untying his ankles and stands, slowly so Foggy doesn’t fall over. He unties Foggy and helps him to his feet. His suit jacket falls to the floor a second later. He’s doing his little jog-in-place thing he does when he first gets warmed up. (Foggy went to the gym once with him, in college. After that he decided he needed to stay sane enough to graduate, which watching Matt work out made less likely, so he never went back.)

Before this, Foggy was so tired he actually considered dozing on Matt’s back till the bad guys got on with it—he hasn’t slept well in months—but now that he’s faced with the inevitability of Matt risking himself for a case that isn’t even his, his heart’s pounding. “Cool, just gonna continue being useless, then. Sounds good.”

Matt reaches for him but lets his hand fall before they make contact. “Not useless. We’ve all got our wheelhouses.” He stiffens. “They’re coming.” Foggy heads to his corner. Leaping to the wall, Matt hits the lights.

Foggy curls up, as small as he can so he doesn’t get in the way, and tries not to speculate about the noises he hears as soon as the door opens. There’s a lot of grunting and thudding and some yells, plus a few bones cracking, which sounds just as gross in person as it does in movies. At one point there’s stumbling and a bunch of the metal cylinders go over with a _crash_.

A few minutes later, the lights come back on. Foggy looks around and sees four guys motionless on the ground. Matt, soaked to the bone, stands next to the open door with his chest heaving.

“You all right?” Foggy asks. Nice of Matt to forego an undershirt; his button-down clings to each individual muscle, personal torture gift-wrapped in Hell.

No. Wait. Foggy shakes his head to clear it. He’s over thinking of Matt that way, he has been for _years_. Except for on special occasions, like New Year’s Eve or his birthday or whenever Matt’s grin gets particularly dopey.

Matt walks over and offers his hand, pulling Foggy upright again. “Let’s get out of here.”

Foggy frowns and doesn’t move. “You didn’t answer the question. Are you okay? Is anything broken?”

“Can we—” Matt cuts off a reply that Foggy can already tell was going to be biting, takes a deep breath while his jaw works, and tries again. “Let’s do the health and wellness check outside, okay? I don’t actually know if they were expecting anyone to show up and I don’t want to risk you getting hurt anymore. We need to find a phone and call the police.”

Now Foggy’s even more worried. Matt’s been almost too conciliatory since he came back from the dead, bending over backwards to avoid pissing Foggy off, which has had the contrary effect of pissing Foggy off regularly. The fact that he’s being testy would be a relief under any other circumstances but these. “Okay.”  He picks his way through the limbs splayed on the floor, picking up the guns with his hand covered by a tissue he found in his pocket, and handing them to Matt. No sense in letting them shoot their way out before the cops get here. One of the men groans just as Foggy steps over him and Foggy jumps, then skids on the oily substance all over the floor and goes down hard. “Shit!”

Matt’s at his elbow in a second. “I should’ve warned you how slippery it is. Hang on to me, okay?”

Foggy grits his teeth and struggles back up. “Yeah. Thanks.” His entire side is coated in the scentless oil, which is making his skin tingle in a not-entirely-unpleasant fashion that’s worrisome nonetheless. Matt puts his arm around his shoulders, in a totally unnecessary move of support, and they finally get out of the room. Foggy turns to lock the door behind them. Matt sets the guns down gingerly, one at a time.

“What kind of neighborhood are we in?” Foggy asks, as they start to make their way through what looks like a small factory, with about a dozen assembly lines clearly visible thanks to the street lights shining through the high windows.

“I think mostly office spaces, a few warehouses.” Matt’s head’s cocked to the side as he tries to narrow it down. “I hear a few security guards in other buildings, custodial staff working late, some homeless people, but that’s about it.”

His words are steady, but his body shakes from head to toe. Foggy stops him with a hand to the shoulder. “What did they do to you?” Matt licks his lips, pulse pounding hard enough that Foggy can see it jumping in his throat in the dim light. He cajoles, “C’mon, Matty, tell me where it hurts.” Matt makes a weak attempt to shrug Foggy’s hand off, but Foggy’s seriously concerned now and tightens his grip. He hardens his tone. “ _Matt_.”

“I—” Matt sways on his feet, panting. “Foggy—Fog, you should—you should go, you shouldn’t—” He grasps at Foggy’s shoulders, under his suit jacket, fingers scrabbling at the fabric of his shirt. “Don’t—don’t—”

The jacket slips down Foggy’s shoulders and he shrugs it off. Matt’s words might say _go_ but his body’s definitely saying _don’t leave me,_ he’s shuffling closer with every word and then he digs his fingertips into Foggy’s waist and yanks him full-length against him, burying his nose into the juncture of Foggy’s neck and shoulder with a ragged sigh that’s almost too faint to hear. The brush of Matt’s breath against his skin makes Foggy’s head go light. He closes his arms around Matt. “Not gonna leave, buddy.”

“Foggy.” Matt turns his head just enough to rub his nose up and down Foggy’s neck. Tracing his pulse.

Foggy barely recognizes his own voice in the overwhelmed, barely-there “Yeah?” he hears. His heart’s rushing in his ears loud enough to nearly drown the sound. There’s a scent in the air he’s never smelled before but he can tell it’s coming from Matt and he needs more of it. There are too many clothes muffling it. He needs to get them out of the way. He fumbles at Matt’s shirt buttons between them.

Matt’s working Foggy’s shirt free of his pants, dragging in deep breaths against Foggy’s skin, one after the other until Foggy’s a little worried he’s about to hyperventilate. “You smell so _good_ , Foggy.” His palms slide up Foggy’s sides under his shirt, greedy. “I want—please can I take this off, it’s—” He makes a small noise of frustration like he’s forgotten how buttons operate.

“Yeah, yeah, here, let me—” Foggy tries to step back an inch or two to give himself room to work, but Matt follows instantly with a discontented whimper.

“No, please, no,” he whispers, alternating between desperate grasping at Foggy’s belly and back and stymied tugs at his clothing.

“I’m gonna, I’m gonna,” Foggy stammers, finally managing to get all their buttons and zippers undone. “Look, I’ve got it, Matty. It’s okay, I’ve got it, see?”

Matt yanks his own shirt off quickly enough that Foggy hears some seams give, toes out of his shoes and socks, shoves his pants and underwear down around his ankles to step out of them, and then he’s standing there, glistening and naked before Foggy’s dumbfounded gaze.

“Holy _shit,_ ” he blurts, because yeah, between sharing a room and watching Matt get patched up he’s seen a lot of him, but he’s never seen it all. His mouth’s watering at the prospect of fitting itself around Matt’s dick, curved up toward his stomach and leaking profusely already.

Matt doesn’t even seem to hear. “Foggy,” he whines, pushing Foggy’s shirt down his arms. His cufflinks pop free and go rolling off into the darkness. Foggy helps, shaking off the shirt, but it’s hard to focus when he keeps getting distracted by the scent of Matt’s skin. It surrounds him like a cloud of incense, heady and rich, cleaving to the inside of Foggy’s nostrils and the back of his throat with every breath. Matt presses his hard-on into Foggy’s hip and the cloud grows thicker. “C’mon, I need—”

“What—why do you—” There’s something not right about this. Foggy closes his eyes and bites the inside of his lip, letting the pain focus him for a second. “Matty, what’re we doing here, what’s going on?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Matt groans, and before Foggy can try to garner any information from that statement, Matt’s pushed his underwear out of the way to get his hand around Foggy’s dick.

Foggy throws his head back and struggles for air because if he looks at Matt this’ll all be over, either he’ll come or he’ll wake up or _something_. They stagger sideways until they bump against one of the assembly line conveyor belts and Foggy can lean on it. “Yeah, okay, yeah, that’s a pretty good explanation, this is what we’re—what we’re doing, holy shit—” Matt’s so slick from whatever-it-was that spilled everywhere that it’s hard to get a grip on his ass but Foggy does his best, hauling him close and biting his shoulder because he needs to get that scent between his _teeth._

Matt sobs something that might be his name and tightens his fingers around him. Foggy feels like the top of his head’s blown off. The noises Matt’s making on every exhale would have him worried under any other circumstance, bitten-off groans that sound like they’re being torn out of his chest against his will. Foggy widens his stance, just enough to let Matt’s thigh slot between his better. Matt’s face is pressed so hard into his neck that he’s gonna get beard burn everywhere, but right now it’s the sort of pain he wants because it means this is real, he’s so tired of being mad at Matt and he just wants to lo—

But even in his head that’s a little too much to admit, so Foggy distracts himself, reaches between them and caresses Matt’s dick with his fingertips. Matt growls and loosens his grip in response. “All right, all right,” Foggy soothes, not without amusement. He runs his thumb over Matt’s slit, down to press at his frenulum, crooks his fingers over the head. Precome spurts across his hand. “You’re so wet, fuck.”

Matt’s free arm wraps around Foggy’s waist, hard as iron, a sharp contrast with the tremors wracking his legs. “Foggy.”

“I’ve got you.” Foggy rubs Matt’s back with his other hand, a vague gesture of comfort that’s more force of habit than anything else. For all that Matt’s the naked one here, he’s burning with a heat that’s radiating through Foggy’s clothes. He almost sounds like he’s crying, and that makes Foggy’s brain pause just enough to want to be _sure_ — “Matt. Hey, Matt, let me see you.”

Matt raises his head, slow and reluctant as if it weighs a hundred pounds, and turns his face so Foggy can see it. He’s red and sweat’s pouring down his face, lips chapped with panting, but his expression hits Foggy’s heart like a sledgehammer, all wide eyed, vulnerable longing, no fear or sadness. “Yeah,” Foggy breathes out, “that’s good. You’re good.” Reassured, he starts working his hand quicker. Matt practically shouts in response and sidesteps fast, like he almost lost his balance. Foggy runs his other hand over Matt’s chest, his scars across his torso, so many of them from the building collapse but here are the two just below his shoulders, the ones Foggy watched Claire stitch up while he cried and swore and had no idea how much worse it could get. Foggy can’t help himself, he kisses the one closest to his mouth— _I should’ve done that after I yelled instead of leaving_ —and at the brush of his lips, Matt cries out, spilling over Foggy’s hand and onto both their stomachs. Foggy works him through it, whispering encouragement, _you’re good, you’re so good, look at you, so fucking gorgeous_ while Matt shakes apart.

Before he can do more than wipe his hand off, Matt goes down on his knees and practically swallows him down. It’s Foggy’s turn to fight to remain upright. His hips twitch forward, faster than thought, and Matt, without stopping, rumbles a protest that vibrates pleasure up Foggy’s spine to the base of his skull. “Sorry,” he gasps. Matt grabs his hips with hands like a vise and goes deeper. Foggy scrabbles at the metal behind him to keep from yanking his hair out. The hot slide of Matt’s mouth over him is going to finish this fast, every pull of his cheeks winding Foggy that much tighter. He makes the mistake of looking at Matt’s face again and he has to touch, has to run his fingers through Matt’s hair and feel the stretch of his lips around Foggy’s length and stroke his throat. Matt’s eyes go heavy-lidded, but he doesn’t let up. One of his hands releases Foggy’s hip to grope for his arm instead, slides down across forearm and wrist to intertwine their fingers, and that’s it, game over, Foggy’s done for. He comes so hard he sees white.

The orgasm clears his head enough for about a thousand questions to come rushing in along with blood flow to his brain, but he goes with the simplest first: “You okay?”

Matt nuzzles his thigh and nods, eyes shut. His mouth looks bruised.

Foggy pets him with unsteady fingers. “Okay. Let’s get—let’s get you dressed, we still gotta call the cops, we gotta—c’mon, Matt, clothes.”

Matt nods again, and turns his head to kiss Foggy’s leg. One, two, three kisses, so soft they’re barely there, raindrops after a thunderstorm. The tenderness of the gesture unknots something that’s been drawn tight in Foggy’s chest for so long he’s forgotten it wasn’t always tangled there. He readjusts his underwear, fastens his pants again, and goes to pick up Matt’s clothes for him. Matt keeps his face turned toward him. He’s obedient while Foggy cajoles him into putting everything back on, but as soon as Foggy gets his own shirt buttoned Matt starts rubbing his face on him like a cat and it’s all Foggy can do to get them out of there without getting undressed again.

They give the police a severely edited version of events, complete with Daredevil swooping in to save the day. By the time they’re allowed to leave the precinct, Matt’s expression has sharpened, gone gaunt and despairing, and Foggy can’t deal with it, so he asks, “Are you okay to get home?” He might be hoping Matt says no. He might be praying he says yes. He has no idea what he wants right now, except that he wants Matt to not be looking in his direction with a face that says he didn’t want… any of that. Fuck. He still smells amazing. This is bullshit.

“I’m okay,” Matt says, voice ragged. “I’ve got a cab coming.”

Foggy’s cab has been on its way for a good hour, and Matt has to know that, has to have overheard the call and know that they could share, but whatever. “Okay, I’ll, uh, I’ll see you later.” Fortunately for his exit plans, the cab pulls to the front as he speaks.

Once he’s in his apartment, Foggy mechanically strips and puts his clothes in the trash. They’re all ruined now. He goes into the bathroom to start the shower and avoids looking in the mirror, instead examining his new and exciting array of bruises. Most of them are from the kidnapping, yanked off the street and tumbled around the back of the van, but ten of them are very specifically not. Matt’s fingerprints, on his hips. Foggy catches himself lining his own fingertips up with each deep purple mark and snatches his hands away.

He soaps up methodically, getting every inch of his body twice, until even the faintest traces of the weird oil stuff is gone. It washes down the drain and takes any possibility of denial with it.

Matt was compromised. Foggy should have known it from the moment he had to ask if Matt was concussed, but he didn’t, he didn’t even think to ask himself _why_ Matt was acting so weird until it was too late, and now he’s going to have to live with knowing that’s the kind of person he is. He’s the kind of guy who had sex with someone who was roofied, basically. And yeah, maybe he had a dose too, but he was still fully aware of what he was doing, and he _should have thought about it._ He should have done more to stop Matt. He shouldn’t have reciprocated, he should’ve—

He barely manages to rip the shower curtain out of the way in time to puke into the toilet. When all that’s left is dry heaves, he flushes, rinses out his mouth in the shower, and turns off the water to keep getting ready for bed, like this is any other night. Brushes his teeth. Gets into underwear and a t-shirt. He checks his phone a couple of times. Not too many. Just enough to be sure Matt didn’t text.

They didn’t even kiss.

When they were in undergrad, before Foggy’s hormones succumbed to a combination of aging out and sheer exhaustion from overexposure to Matt, he used to fantasize about their first kiss, dumb scenarios that he was embarrassed about weaving even while he created them. Spin the Bottle games gone awry or accidental face touching or, hell, on-purpose face touching after that one time Matt did it to map Foggy’s features. In every single one, though, he had been gentle, so so careful even though Matt was so tough, maybe _because_ he was so tough. In none of them had he fucked and ran.

Foggy’s stomach lurches, and he hangs onto the door frame that leads into his bedroom, swallowing nausea until he can move again. It’s one in the morning, but he goes ahead and texts Jeri anyway since she never sleeps. In answer to his explanatory message about the night’s events, she replies within a minute: _I assume you’ll want the morning off. I’ll have your appointments rescheduled._

Foggy texts his thanks, sets the phone down on his nightstand, and picks it up again almost immediately, staring at Matt’s message thread. It’s mostly just short stuff, _I’m on my way now_ or _we said eleven, right?_ Matt’s not big on texting for obvious reasons. Foggy should call him, right now, just to check on him. Except, what if Matt never wants to talk to him again? It’s what he deserves, after what he’s done.

He stares at the ceiling and composes apologies in his head, all of which sound hollow and insincere, until daylight starts slanting through his blinds. He gets ready for work even though he apparently won’t have any till noon, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

His phone rings with a police precinct number at nine. He stares at it till it’s almost too late before it goes to voicemail, but ends up answering. “Hello?”

“Mr. Nelson? This is Detective Williams, NYPD, we spoke last night.”

“Hi, detective. Long night for you.”

“Eh, they pretty much all are. Hey, listen, we heard back from the owners of the building where you were taken. It’s a perfume manufacturing facility. Apparently the stuff that was spilled in the room where you were kept is some sort of top-secret additive? No scent on its own but it boosts the wearer’s personal scent or something. I knew the EMTs had some questions about it last night so I thought I’d let you know for when you follow up with your doctor.”

Foggy swallows, his throat painfully constricted with hope. “You mean, it’s just a perfume ingredient? Nothing to do with illegal drugs or anything?”

“Yeah, basically.”

“ _Thank you,_ ” Foggy says, too fervently but he can’t help himself. “I appreciate you taking the time to call.” That explains the connection to Jones, too. Someone must have worried she’d run off with the formula, though he wouldn’t have expected perfumers to be quite so cutthroat. Well, he'll let the superheroes handle that part.

“Sure thing.”

Once they’ve said their goodbyes, Foggy heads out the door and straight for Matt’s. Matt opens the door before he even raises his hand to knock. His hair’s everywhere and his eyes are red.

“I spent all night wondering if I raped you,” Foggy blurts before he can think it through, and Matt huffs a humorless chuckle.

“I was wondering the same thing, only reversed.” He stands aside to let Foggy enter and closes the door behind him. “I take it you heard from Detective Williams.”

“Yeah, so that’s cool, I’m glad I don’t have to go turn myself in, confession in hand.” Foggy’s trying to keep it light but when he hears the words out loud it turns out he needs to sit right away. He sinks down onto Matt’s couch. “God. I knew what I was doing, but it didn't occur to me till I went home that you might not have.”

"No. I knew what I was doing too." Matt makes an aborted move, like he wants to sit next to him but thought better of it. “Do you—do you want coffee? I made some.”

“Sure, yeah, why not give that ulcer I’ve been working on a turbo boost.” Foggy keeps his eyes closed until Matt’s in front of him offering the mug. “Thanks.”

Matt goes and stands all the way across the room, and that makes Foggy’s heartbeat jump with panic. Matt frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Foggy lies, and when Matt lifts his face to the ceiling, revises, “Okay, fine, I’m just freaking out a lot about the fact that you’re banishing yourself to the other side of the room from me—am I making you that uncomfortable? We don’t have to talk about this right now, I can leave.”

“No.” Matt crosses back to the couch and hesitates before sitting down, as far as he can from Foggy while still maintaining nominal contact with the cushion. “ _You_ don’t make me uncomfortable, Foggy. I do.”

Foggy drinks coffee for something to do. “Okay… you making yourself uncomfortable is still you keeping a safe distance from me, so… not really seeing the difference here.”

Matt’s twisting his fingers, which brings up all sorts of bad memories. Foggy wants to put his hand over them but he’s not sure the gesture would be appreciated. “Our friendship has taken a lot of beatings over the past year or so. I’m worried that this might be one too many.”

“Sex isn’t a deal breaker, Matt.” Matt stiffens, chin jerking up, and Foggy hurries on, trying to make it better. “I mean, I’m surprised it didn’t happen in college, right? We’ve been friends forever, our relationship has passed the test of _death_ , I think we can sweep a little ill-advised pheromone-fueled sexual tomfoolery under the proverbial rug and carry on, don’t you?”

Matt’s shoulders slump. If Foggy didn’t know it was from relief, he would almost think he looks sad. “Yeah. Yes. Absolutely.” He takes a deep breath. “Thank you.”

Foggy has to take a moment to answer, and when he does, he knows his tone is way too gentle. “You don’t have to thank me, Matty.” He goes to the sink and washes out his mug so he doesn’t have to see how Matt reacts. Once that’s done, he says, “I’ve got to head into the office. You gonna be all right, here?”

“Of course. I’m going to go in myself later.” Matt stands to walk him to the door.

Foggy stands in the open doorway a moment too long, studying Matt’s face. Matt drifts closer. When he does, the scent hits Foggy's nose. He gasps involuntarily. Matt leans in, and Foggy turns his head, ready to be kissed. Instead, Matt runs his nose down Foggy’s neck and stays there, entire body held in check with a force of will Foggy can sense in the unnatural stillness of every muscle just inches from his own. Matt’s fighting himself. Foggy wants him to lose.

But he doesn’t move, and he doesn’t move, and that _smell_ , God, Foggy just wants to wrap himself in it, wants Matt in contact with every bit of skin he can bare to him. Slowly, so he doesn’t startle him away, Foggy nuzzles into Matt’s hair, inhaling as subtly as he can. One tiny kiss to the top of Matt’s ear. One to his hair. One to his cheekbone. That knot in Foggy’s chest loosens with each one. It’s been so hard not to touch, it’s been low-key awful for years but it was worth it to have Matt, even though sometimes it felt like his hands were aching with the need to reach out past the usual hugs and pats to the shoulder, a never-ending bout of love-induced influenza complete with fever.

Even when he was incandescent with rage, when things were at their worst, the instinct to physically comfort was still there beneath all the turmoil. It’s just that Matt would never have let him. He wouldn’t have wanted it. And now he does.

Of course, Foggy doesn’t _only_ want to comfort. His dick is hard enough to hammer nails. Still moving slow, he draws Matt’s earlobe into his mouth and scrapes his teeth across it.

Matt reacts like Foggy touched him with a live wire, a shudder moving through his whole body before he yanks Foggy back into his apartment and slams the door shut so fast that Foggy doesn’t really process the motion till it’s complete.

“Bed,” Matt bites out, stripping his shirt off and kicking off his sweats. “Now, Foggy, now—”

“Bed,” Foggy agrees. He’s a little more careful with his clothes, laying them over the back of the couch before he lets Matt tug him through the bedroom door.

Matt’s still moving quickly, pulling Foggy around to his front so he can push him down on the bed. Foggy gets the impression he’s worried about him changing his mind. That’s okay. Foggy’s a little worried about it too. He pulls Matt on top of him, letting the weight press him into the mattress, solidify his commitment to the moment. Only for a second, though, because he’s got goals.

Rolling them over, he starts kissing his way down Matt’s torso. It’s hard not to get distracted along the way and start following muscles sideways and around, but the way Matt’s gripping the sheets keeps him focused. When his face draws even with Matt’s dick, he hovers above it, letting his breath brush against it and watching it jerk upward in response. He glances up. Matt’s biting his lower lip so hard Foggy’s surprised there’s no blood. Last night’s scent is strongest here. It goes straight to his head, like he’s downed half a dozen shots in a minute. He plants light kisses all the way up the underside of Matt’s dick while Matt gasps and flinches with every press of his mouth.

When Foggy gets to the head, he sets his lips lightly against it, just touches it with the tip of his tongue. He hears thread unraveling beneath the scrape of Matt’s fingernails. With a huff of laughter, Foggy pats his hip in consolation and takes him into his mouth. It’s been a while but he remembers how to do this, how to relax and swallow around it. Matt’s trying to hold still but that sort of consideration’s the last thing Foggy wants at the moment. He digs his fingers into Matt’s ass and angles him up, taking him deeper, keeping up a steady rhythm that soon has Matt swearing and sobbing moans into the crook of his arm. He draws his feet up flat on the mattress as his thighs start to tremble in earnest, so Foggy’s ready when he swells and comes down his throat with an incoherent garble of sounds that’s probably supposed to be Foggy’s name.

“Yeah,” Foggy whispers, voice fucked hoarse as he strokes Matt’s balls, his hip bones, the base of his dick. Just to be an asshole, he curls his tongue close-fit to the head once more, so Matt thrashes and whimpers. Overstimulated and weak with it is a fucking good look on him. It makes Foggy feel like he could take on the Winter Soldier and win.

“Come here,” Matt says when he can speak again, one hand closing loosely over the back of Foggy’s head to draw him up. He tucks his forehead into the curve of Foggy’s neck, which seems to be rapidly becoming his favorite place. “What do you want?” His hands haven’t stopped moving over Foggy’s body, grasping at his sides, smoothing up his belly, petting his biceps. They’re both covered in sweat, enough to be almost frictionless against each other with it.

“I’m guessing you don’t have any lube,” Foggy says, while his hips make an involuntary roll against Matt’s. Matt hesitates, but shakes his head. “Too busy being a hero to get any action since you’ve been back, huh?”

Matt rolls over onto his stomach and draws Foggy down on top of him again. Foggy sucks air in between his teeth when his dick fits in between Matt’s ass cheeks and slides up. Matt draws Foggy’s arms around his own so that they’re crossed beneath his chest. He quivers as Foggy tightens the embrace.

“God, I wanna fuck you so bad,” Foggy murmurs, mindful of his volume this close to Matt’s ear.

Matt arches under him. “I’d let you,” he pants as Foggy thrusts against his ass. Foggy’s leaking, making a mess, rubbing over Matt’s hole but too slick to really catch on it. “Fuck, fuck, I’d let you do it now.”

“Masochist,” Foggy chides, and digs his teeth into Matt’s shoulder, reward disguised as punishment. Matt groans and rubs himself on the mattress. Foggy can tell he’s already hard again—there’s some kind of cue in his scent and he just _knows_. A superhero level recovery time probably shouldn’t surprise him at this point. “That’s not the fun kind of pain, buddy.”

Matt doesn’t argue, just pushes counterpoint to his movements faster while Foggy’s dick gets heavier and his words desert him. Matt can read Foggy just as well as Foggy reads him, because as soon as Foggy goes nonverbal he starts begging: “Please, Foggy, please, wanna feel you come, you feel so fucking good, I just want you to come all over me—” and Foggy curls into him, shaking through his orgasm while he stripes Matt’s ass and the small of his back. Matt groans and steps up the rhythm of his hips, grinding into the silk sheets until Foggy can force himself to move, to slide his hand down and jerk him off.

Rational thought starts to creep in on the edges of Foggy’s mind as they lie panting and still. He kisses the marks he bit into Matt’s shoulder, and wonders about the other wounds he’ll leave. Matt pulls his arm up and clings to his wrists. He doesn’t let go till Foggy gently frees himself to clean them both off with the corner of the sheet.

Foggy roll over onto his back and stares at the ceiling, waiting for inspiration to strike. “Okay,” he tries, and it comes out sounding at least fifty percent purposeful, so he gives it another go. “Okay.”

Matt makes an indeterminate noise into his pillow. It might be agreement. His breathing’s slow and steady and his entire body is boneless in a way Foggy hasn’t seen since before law school. Foggy’s kind of proud of that accomplishment even though he knows it’s stupid.

They should talk about this, right? He’s pretty sure they’re supposed to talk about this. New unexpected sex after agreeing to forget about previous unexpected sex is a definite talking point.

But if they talk about it, Matt’s shoulders are going to end up around his ears again and he’ll get the sad I-always-let-everyone-down face and honestly, this time should also fall under the provenance of “sweep it under the rug,” because barely any time has passed since the last time and really, you could consider these two separate times as one time separated by a few hours. So they’re good. Everything’s fine. This is just going to make an elephant-sized lump under the carpet and they’ll walk around it carefully and pretend not to know why they trip sometimes. Everything’s going to be great.

Oh look. _Foggy’s_ shoulders are up around his ears. Neat trick, that.

Nope. He’s not doing this. He’s obsessed about Matt Murdock enough for two lifetimes. It’s over now. Which means he can definitely kiss Matt on the knobs of his spine between his shoulder blades, _one two three_ , and it doesn’t mean anything. Matt hums and settles more deeply into the blankets.

Foggy eases out of bed and gets dressed with as little noise as possible. When he angles on his tiptoes to get a peek into Matt’s bedroom from the kitchen, Matt still hasn’t moved. He goes to work, and spends the rest of the day having sensory flashbacks to Matt’s fingers, tight around his wrists.

***

Matt texts Foggy that night. _We’re still okay, right?_

Foggy already has his phone in hand, debating whether or not to text him first. He doesn’t bother waiting to reply. _Of course we are._ Because they are. No matter how much Foggy isn’t. It’s weird not to be mad at Matt anymore but it feels good.

He doesn’t see Matt for over a week. They were supposed to get together on the weekend at some point, but Matt calls him already breathing hard as he jumps from rooftop to rooftop in pursuit of some criminal or other, and Foggy lets him out of it with a minimum of protest. He’s not quite sure what’ll happen the next time they see each other. Maybe he should make sure it’s in public.

***

It is in public, though it’s a complete coincidence that they run into each other at the courthouse on Friday, not any plan of Foggy’s. They both have cases going to trial at the same time. Foggy catches his scent while he’s in line at the metal detectors in the morning and stiffens to attention like a dog, turning to look straight at Matt. Goddammit.

He’s assisting Jeri with one of her more high-profile clients, but it still requires him to pay close attention even though she’s doing all the talking. So at least he doesn’t have much of a chance to think about Matt for the rest of the day. The second Foggy steps out of the courtroom, though, there he is, acting like he just happened to be walking down the hallway at the same time. Yeah, right.

“You’re not smooth, Murdock,” he says under his breath. The corners of Matt’s mouth pull up into a wicked smile. Foggy doesn’t bother waiting to walk with him, just heads right into the restroom and stands there till Matt steps in and slides the lock home on the main door.

“You’re assuming a lot, there,” Foggy points out, but he can’t make the words bite.

“I just want to talk,” Matt says, voice mild. He leans back against the door, studiously relaxed. Foggy’s not fooled. He can see Matt’s mouth falling open a little as he inhales. The vein in his neck throbs and his arousal hits Foggy’s nose like the best kind of drug. Yeah, okay. That’s hot, watching and _smelling_ Matt get turned on just by being in the same room. It might be having the same effect on Foggy.

“Come here,” he says, his voice like gravel.

He blinks, and Matt’s inches away. Foggy reaches up to pluck his new glasses from his nose, sliding them off with care and sticking them in the outer pocket of Matt’s messenger bag. Matt looks mildly curious about it, but says nothing.

“I want to see you,” Foggy explains. He leans to bite Matt’s jaw. Matt jolts forward and presses him to the wall.

“I smelled you getting turned on this morning when you realized I was there,” he growls into Foggy’s neck. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to concentrate in court today? Every time I let my guard down, I heard your heart, one floor above, and this was all I could think of.” He palms Foggy’s hard-on, and Foggy grabs his ass to pull him closer. Their erections brush through their clothes. Matt grunts at the glancing contact and lifts Foggy’s thigh as he grinds against him. Foggy bangs his head against the wall, throwing it back to catch his breath, and barely feels the impact. Too little blood above the waist.

“All you could think of,” he grumbles, in between sucking kisses down below Matt’s ear. He’s just barely coherent enough to remember not to leave marks, though God knows Matt never shows himself that much consideration. “Buddy, at least you _could_ think. Jeri literally snapped her fingers in front of my face to get my attention once while we were at lunch, it was humiliating.” He’s already unsteady, giddy with Matt’s scent and his own arousal, on edge from thinking about this all day, all _week_. It’s been the world’s most unsatisfactory foreplay. “Matt—Matt—”

“Yeah?” Matt grabs the hair at the back of Foggy’s head and pulls, just enough for him to feel it. Foggy thumps the wall with his fist, trying to hold on. “Come on, Foggy. You don’t have to wait.” He drags air into his lungs, nose shoved against Foggy’s shoulder. The pressure of his leg against Foggy’s dick gets a little more firm as he moves even closer, rutting hard into his hip. The tension in Foggy’s spine draws taut. “C’mon,” he says again, and yeah, Foggy’s coming, teeth clenched as his groan echoes off the cold tile all around them despite being muffled by Matt’s collarbone. His orgasm seems to trigger Matt’s. At least, he only has to thrust a few more times before he’s lost his rhythm. He mouths soundlessly at Foggy’s neck while he convulses.

They hang onto each other for a few minutes, after. When Foggy cards his fingers through Matt’s hair, he turns his face into Foggy’s wrist, sighs, and kisses it, _one two three_. Foggy watches like it’s happening to someone else. His throat aches.

“What a mess,” he says, not sure if he means their pants or their situation or his own pathetic heart.

Matt doesn’t reply, but he does reach over without leaving Foggy’s side and grabs a handful of paper towels. He gives half of them to Foggy and keeps the rest to clean himself up as best he can. At least five people try the door in the interim. Gross. This shit is for teenagers with dubious personal hygiene, not grown men who have to walk to their own homes.

“What are you doing tonight?” Foggy asks him as they straighten their clothes. “Gonna go kick some criminal ass?”

Matt shrugs and puts his glasses back on. “Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t have any pressing concerns at the moment so…” He shrugs again. It looks… floppy, almost. Not his usual finely-tuned athlete control of his body. Which means something about this conversation matters to him.

“Wanna get Chinese and hang out at my place?” Foggy offers.

Matt pauses in the act of washing his hands, arrested. He recovers fast. “Yeah—yeah, of course.”

They agree on the time and Foggy steps into a stall while Matt unlocks the door and leaves. No one comes in, so Foggy washes his hands in turn, thinking about Matt kissing his wrist, about the way he kept Foggy from hitting his head again under the guise of pulling his hair.

***

Matt shows up with too many bags of food. Foggy laughs when he swings the door open. “Holy shit, Matt, I meant we’d order together, not that you’d bring the restaurant to me.”

Matt smiles, a little sheepish. “I was hungry. Worked through lunch.”

Foggy helps him set the containers out on the counter and gets plates down. “Why’d you work through lunch?”

Matt’s cheekbones go pink. Foggy tells himself it’s not endearing. “I, um. I didn’t mean to, I was just. Distracted.”

Foggy tilts his head in consideration. “Distracted?” Matt’s blush deepens. “Matthew. Was I the distraction?” He expects Matt to deny it, but instead of scoffing, Matt jerks one shoulder up the tiniest bit. A concession. The omnipresent knot in Foggy’s chest loosens one final time and disappears, entirely undone. All that’s left is love and fear in equal measure. “Hey.” He reaches out to lace their fingers together, pulls Matt up against him, and kisses his forehead. “Just for the record, you’re very distracting to me, too.”

Matt gives him one of his genuine, goofy smiles. “Good to know.”

Foggy noses his cheek and runs his hands up Matt’s arms. He can tell that Matt showered after he went home, but most of his scent was covered by the food when he got here. This close? Foggy can’t miss the beginning traces of attraction under the soap. He wonders how he did before. The give of Matt’s muscles beneath his touch tells him Matt’s not fighting it, and that sends a thrill from his heart all the way to his fingertips. “You wanna wait on the food, or are you too hungry?”

Matt huffs a tiny laugh into his ear. “I’m not too hungry to want you to fuck me first, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That is _exactly_ what I’m asking, Mr. Summa Cum Laude, all those concussions have clearly had no effect on your powers of deduction.” Foggy kisses his jaw, his cheekbone, his chin. _One, two, three._ He knows he’s giving the game away with each one, but then again Matt sometimes can fail to notice what’s literally under his nose when it comes to feelings. When it comes to _Foggy’s_ feelings in particular.

“True.” Matt’s voice goes low and teasing. “For instance, right now I deduce that you changed your sheets before I got here. Mr. Nelson, were you planning on ravishing me?”

“Nonsense.” Foggy takes an elaborate step back, away from Matt and coincidentally toward the bedroom. “I intended to be a perfect gentleman. It’s not my fault that you changed my mind.”

Matt follows him as he continues backing toward the bedroom door. “Poor Foggy. Noble intentions, base pursuits.”

Foggy watches with appreciation as Matt takes his shirt off and kicks off his shoes. “I’m not feeling too sorry for myself at the moment, honestly.”

“Neither am I.” Matt sheds the rest of his clothing and moves past Foggy to stretch out on the bed, arms behind his head, and yeah. No reason at _all_ to feel sorry for himself.

Foggy takes off his clothes and throws them into the corner, then opens the nightstand drawer to get out the lube and condoms. Matt draws his knees up, legs apart for Foggy to crawl between as he joins him on the bed. Foggy’s in no hurry, though. He kisses Matt’s chest and licks his nipples while Matt shudders and clutches at his arms. He runs his tongue along the lines of Matt’s ridiculous abs to see if he’ll laugh, but instead he just moans. He licks down to Matt’s balls and takes them into his mouth just to hear him shout. He licks his dick but doesn’t give him any suction even though Matt begs.

Finally, Foggy lifts up one leg and kisses Matt’s ankle before hooking it over his shoulder. Matt’s clutching at the sides of his pillow now, like he’s having to physically anchor his hands to keep them from moving. Foggy’s guessing he’d really like to cover his face. It says something that he’s fighting the urge. He props Matt’s hips up with another pillow, kisses his shin, for good measure, and pops the cap open on the lube.

His first finger slides in easily. He barely has to wait for the resistance to give enough for him to sink all the way in, and that sets the tiny niggling doubts in the back of his head at rest. Matt’s good with this. “You feel amazing, buddy,” he says, voice quieter than he meant it to be, as he stretches him open. “You’re so hot and tight. I can’t wait to feel you around my dick.”

Matt groans, expression pleading.

“Not yet though.” Foggy twists his finger and rubs against Matt’s prostate. Matt’s mouth falls open in a helpless sob. Foggy’s brain goes wordless at the sight of Matt undone because of _him_ , just because Foggy’s touching him. He adds more lube and works a second finger in, resting his free hand on Matt’s stomach to steady him. Matt turns his head to clench the pillowcase between his teeth, whining. Foggy pauses. Before he can ask if he’s still okay, Matt lifts up to fuck himself on Foggy’s fingers, and, well. Yeah. No words.

Foggy keeps an eye on the clock beside his bed because he doesn’t trust himself not to rush it, and he doesn’t trust Matt to tell him not to even though he basically admitted to being celibate for months. He’s got three fingers inside him before too long, but he waits till Matt’s staying open when he pulls out before he puts the condom on and slicks himself up.

“You ready, Matty?” he asks, rubbing himself around Matt’s hole.

Matt, who hasn’t really talked much during the entire process for all that he’s been making plenty of obscene noise, nods frantically. “Yeah, yes, please, Foggy, please fuck me, c’mon—”

“Yeah,” Foggy breathes, and lets himself start to sink in.

He takes his time, even though Matt keeps trying to get him to hurry with twitches of his hips and whispered begging, “Please, please, please.” When he’s fully seated, Matt’s stopped talking and is wide-eyed, face showing too many emotions to separate them into categories as it tilts toward the ceiling.

Matt’s not the only one feeling fractured. Foggy’s legs are trembling beneath him. He strokes Matt’s dick, waits until the traces of pain wash away from his expression and his chest flushes red. Matt moves against him and makes a high-pitched pleading sound. “All right, sweetheart, I got you.”

Foggy moves with caution at first, but Matt won’t let him keep doing that. He clenches around Foggy, catches him off guard, and then tilts up to take him deeper, deeper, while Foggy groans and sweats above him. Foggy fights him on the rhythm, and keeps it steady though he goes deep with every stroke. He can tell Matt wants him to pound him into the mattress but that means this will be over really fast and… no. Foggy doesn’t want that.

He wonders if Matt can smell love the way he smells arousal, wonders if it’s pouring out of every cell of Foggy’s body until Matt feels drowned in it. He wonders if maybe that’s half of what he’s been catching from Matt’s scent all this time and he just needed a while to pinpoint it, if he could learn to recognize it coming from random people on the street. It doesn’t matter now. He doesn’t need scent when he’s got naked adoration written all over the face in front of him. The fear he's carried for years crumples in on itself and becomes manageable while he stares.

Foggy breaks first, orgasm sneaking up on him while he’s busy noticing feelings instead. He moans, “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” as he pulses inside Matt, and Matt kisses his shoulder in response. Once he can manage basic thought again, he starts to withdraw, but Matt tightens his arms and legs around him with a “no, no, c’mon,” that sounds genuinely desperate. He must be really close. Foggy keeps fucking him while he wraps his hand around his dick till Matt makes a noise like he’s dying and comes all over them both.

Foggy lingers, kissing whatever skin is closest to his mouth, but he finally has to ease out. Once he’s taken care of the condom and cleaned them both up with a washcloth, he comes back to bed and lies half on Matt, wrapping him up in his arms. He’s come to a decision. “Hey.”

Matt was almost asleep, but he blinks awake at the serious note in Foggy’s voice. “Yeah?”

“I need to tell you something. You listening?”

Matt’s expression goes wary. “Yeah.”

“Good.” And Foggy kisses that red mouth with every bit of emotion he’s been trying to tamp down for basically forever. _One._ He kisses him again. Matt gasps and parts his lips, welcoming the sweep of Foggy’s tongue. _Two._ Foggy pulls back. Keeping his voice stern, he adds, “Now pay attention,” and kisses him again, bringing his hands up to frame Matt’s face, cherishing his jawline with his thumbs. _Three._

_I love you._

“Foggy,” Matt breathes when he lifts his head again.

“Did you get it, or do I need to repeat myself?” Foggy can’t keep from smiling. So he’s a sap for Matt. Sue him. He’s got a good lawyer.

Matt shakes his head and slides one hand up Foggy’s chest to cup the front of his neck. Feeling his pulse, Foggy guesses, and probably his breathing too. “I think you should explain it to me one more time. In depth. Don’t skip anything.” He angles his face up for more kisses.

Foggy obliges, and decides love _does_ have a scent—him and Matt, just like this. He doesn’t need to recognize it on anybody else.


End file.
